


Wandering Child of the Earth

by statesofuncertainty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, John is a good singer, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Prompt Fill, Requited Love, Songfic, violin, well kinda but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5533976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statesofuncertainty/pseuds/statesofuncertainty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock flopped onto his bed, his head landing on the pillows. John was utterly infuriating, how could that man parade around on a daily basis completely oblivious to the effect he has on Sherlock? It was maddening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wandering Child of the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt suggested by the wonderful ZellaCat. The song is “Wanderer's Lullaby” by Adriana Figueroa (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70VlAyEUXYM) Cassandra Leigh is based on Charlotte Church (a favourite of mine) and young!John's voice is based on that of Billy Gilman in duet with Charlotte Church in “Dream a Dream” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVmKwLLKl20) Not beta'd or brit-picked so all mistakes are mine.  
> (Btw Harry's annoying habit is based on my sister who sang all the time and drove me up the wall, she is a fantastic singer but it's because she practiced practically non-stop at the cost of my sanity)

Sherlock Holmes sat in an uncomfortable suit, in an uncomfortable chair, in an uncomfortably stuffy theatre, he hated everything. Well that might be an exaggeration, he couldn't quite bring himself to hate the singer because she was excellent, as was the violinist; he would like to learn to play the violin that well but he suspected that he would be to small to hold a violin properly. His suit wasn't actually uncomfortable, and the chair-although too big for his small frame-was stuffed to perfection; granted the theatre was stuffy but that was mainly because Mycroft took up too much space and if he actually thought about why he was unhappy he would quickly realize that it was because Mycroft had thought of buying their parents tickets to this show before he had thought of it.

Cassandra Leigh had an excellent soprano range, and had been a child prodigy discovered at the age of eleven and now she was in her late twenties and a single mother of two children. Cassandra had only sung two songs so far and he had not had much time to try to deduce her; Mycroft could no doubt look past her stage makeup and see more then he did, but Mycroft was twelve and had had more time to practice deduction. Dwelling on Mycroft's superiority only annoyed him further and he squirmed in an attempt to restrain himself from hitting his brother it was his parent's anniversary and making a scene would ruin their evening, so he sat on his hands restraining himself. Mycroft had told him that no one would have let a lisping five-year-old buy tickets to this performance anyways, but he wasn't quite so sure, he did have an excellent 'puppy dog' face, or so Cook told him every time he convinced him to give him an extra biscuit.

 The theatre became suddenly silent as the soprano took a step forward and with perfect pitch she began to sing _Pie Jesu_. Sherlock forgot Mycroft, the stuffy theatre and closing his eyes he let the song wash over him. The violin played flawlessly along with the grand piano and the rest of the small orchestra, all other thoughts fled from his mind as the song even made him forget where he was.

 All too soon Cassandra announced that she had enjoyed singing in such a beautiful and historically

important theatre and that for her final song she would be joined by her son James Leigh. On cue an ordinary looking boy around ten years of age with a bowl cut, and a smart suit with a tie that matched his mother's shimmering blue dress walked onto the stage. With a shy smile the boy stood beside his mother who gave him a nod and just as the music began to swell he began to sing:

 “Wandering child of the earth  
Do you know just how much you're worth?  
You have walked this path since your birth  
You were destined for more”

 Sherlock was completely taken by the music and the melody and looked with interest at the boy who was clearly very talented. Sherlock's focus fell once again on the violinist but as the second verse began he began to listen to the lyrics that were being sung with flawless tone.  
  
“There are those who'll tell you you're wrong  
They will try to to silence your song  
But right here is where you belong  
So don't search anymore”

 If Cassandra's singing had captured his attention with it's perfection, James' song made him freeze and the meaning of the words crowded his mind. In a second he was remembering his first day of Kindergarden, he had tried to make friends he really had, but they didn't like him, nobody liked him and he had been left alone to hide his tears. As the song continued onto the third verse Cassandra joined her son and they continued it in perfect harmony while Sherlock sat mesmerized. If Mycroft looked at him quizzically he didn't notice.

 The entire theatre full of aristocrats and other ancient families stood up and clapped as the two Leighs bowed and curtsied respectively before leaving the stage. Sherlock was on his feet and running down from the Holmes balcony in a second, desperate to meet the older boy who had sung so beautifully. He didn't know why but he needed to talk to him but he simply had to. The words “You are the dawn of a new day that's waking/A masterpiece still in the making” still running through his mind.

 There were people, so many people. All of them so tall, and slow moving, none one them taking any notice of him until he pushed at their legs to try to part a path through the ocean of dress skirts and tailor made trousers. He shoved and tried to run through the small gaps that occasionally appeared but it was exhausting So many people, none of them caring and none of them moving out of his way. He was still a long ways away from the stage and the crowd kept getting denser, it was impossible. His eyes filled with tears of frustration and the involuntary sob that escaped his mouth caught the attention of an elderly woman dressed in a sapphire blue gown.

 “Oh look at the poor thing. Are you lost?”

 Sherlock couldn't bring himself to reply, he just pointed at the stage and looked at her through his tears.

 “You can't go there, it's only for the performers.”

 He opened his mouth to explain, but the woman had stood up and in a surprising show of strength swept him up and headed towards the doors saying “We'll find your parents dear, don't worry.” Sherlock was too drained to protest and could only cry.

\-----------------------------------

Sherlock flopped onto his bed, his head landing on the pillows. John was utterly infuriating, how could that man parade around on a daily basis completely oblivious to the effect he has on Sherlock? It was maddening. Sherlock shifted his annoyed gaze from the ceiling to his torso where for the first time in a long time his body was experiencing sexual arousal. Sex was important to him even though he had not indulged recently, the work kept him too busy for the life style he had maintained at university, but every so often a certain attractive man with blond hair and ugly jumpers would brush his arm and totally derail his thoughts. John had a bad habit of walking near him quite alot and it was thoroughly distracting. Sherlock groaned he was 34 years old and should not be reacting like a bloody teenager. Closing his eyes his hands slipped into his pyjama pants and wrapped around his cock, it was warm and steadily growing with interest as his hand gently pumped. Grasping around with his free hand he grabbed the lube from the nightstand and applied it without loosing rhythm. What would John look like unclothed? He wouldn't be as fit as he was during his army days, but that strong frame and powerful strength would still be obvious. John nearly always wore a top around the flat, but Sherlock had been gifted a sight of John shirtless once when Sherlock had walked in on him changing; John indeed had a muscular frame even if his horrid collection of jumpers hid that from the world. Was John circumcised? Probably, men of his generation were more likely to have been circumcised, and John was so fastidiously practical in every other aspect of his life that Sherlock expected his genitals to reflect that. He gasped as his fingers rubbed against his tip, he shimmied out of the shorts and began to pump in earnest his breaths coming in quick gasps as his back arched.

 John's smile that one time with the chase through Cardiff, John's praises during the conclusion of the six Napoleons, John's shoulders held strong that time when he had confronted Dimmock. Sherlock thrust into his palm as every muscle in his body stiffened and he thumped the pillow as he came, one arm flung over his mouth in an attempt to muffle the name that escaped his mouth.

 The silence that filled his room was interrupted by his phone ringing. Fuck.

 “Hello?”

 “Sherlock I need those files back.” Lestrade's voice demanded.

“I am using them.” Sherlock coughed trying to even his voice. 

“No you are not, I need them in less then an hour my superior wants to take a look at our progress and how will he react to the information that I have been letting you on crime scenes?”

“Aurgh. Fine I'll be right over.” Sherlock groaned.

Lestrade's voice hesitated “Are you all right?”

“Yes, why?”

“Your voice sounds a bit funny... are you sure you are all right?”

“I am fine Lestrade.” With that he clicked off the phone and rolled out of bed only stumbling a little as his legs regained their function.

 Peering into the kitchen he saw John who was wearing his bathrobe and was putting some bread into the toaster, his blogger was in the need of a shower, but of course he would priorities tea and toast after spending a morning investigating London's alleyways.

“I am going to Scotland Yard.” Sherlock announced as he buttoned up his fresh shirt.

“Okay, you go I'll stay I really need to take a shower.” John replied as he indicated his dirty clothes that lay in a heap in the washroom.

“It's not my fault you fell into that puddle.” Sherlock sniffed remembering helping John up and using his scarf to wipe the mud away, his hands pressing the blue material onto John's solid chest.

“I wasn't going to blame you, but since you're so eager to be cleared of it I will blame you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hiding his fond smile he turned and left the flat. Never had a scarf been ruined in so worthy a manner.

The cab had been driving for less then five minutes when Sherlock spotted one of his homeless network sitting under a tree in a small park. Ordering the cabby to pull over Sherlock walked up to Ashley.

“Would you like fifty quid?”

Ashley's eyes lit up and she bounced to her feet. “Of course.” 

“Deliver this package to Lestrade at Scotland Yard.”

Ashley nodded her messy blonde head and quickly packing her belongings she grabbed the case files and slipped them into her bag. “I am happy to do anything you are too lazy to do Mr. Holmes.” She smiled.

Sherlock made a non committal noise and handed her a fifty pound note before heading back towards the cab. At least now he could return and either begin an experiment on those pens that he had been collecting, or he could return to bed and revisit the sensation of toweling John off with his scarf. 

\--------------------------------

The flat was just as he left it less then fifteen minutes earlier. Mrs. Hudson was gone for the day and John never played music, so Sherlock was confused by the muffled sound of music that became louder as he quietly ascended the stairs. They rarely if ever played music other then what Sherlock would scratch out of the violin. The flat was as he had left it with the exception that the bathroom was occupied and a voice was singing. A voice that threw Sherlock back almost three decades, puberty might have deepened that voice, but it was still the same voice that had echoed through his head when he was just five years old. In an almost trance like state he followed the singing to the bathroom door where the slightly muffled lyrics to _Dream a Dream_ and he stood there paralyzed just a few steps down from the bathroom doorway. The voice fell away and Sherlock could imagine blond hair getting rinsed under a spray of warm water. The shower was turned off and there was some shuffling before the door opened. A cloud of steam flooded the hallway as John, clad in a fresh set of clothes, stepped out a frown crinkled his forehead when he saw Sherlock staring at him. “What?”

“You have a beautiful singing voice.” Sherlock said completely taken aback at the steadiness of his voice.

John flushed slightly “Thanks.”

“Why didn't you pursue a career in music, your mother made a career of it.”

“Well bec- Wait. I've never told you anything about my mother” John said.

“I once saw her perform.”

John's eyes widened in surprise “How did you know she was my mother? Leigh was just a stage name, her real name as you have undoubtedly seen on my birth certificate was Jessica Watson.”

“I didn't. It was only just now I recognized your voice. You sang at the performance we were at.”

John leaned against the doorway with a raised eyebrow “I only performed a few times when I was about ten.” John looked even more confused “You can't remember Greg's name but you remember a performance you saw when you were-what-seven?”

“I was five years old.”

“Oh.”

The silence that fell between them felt equal parts awkward and comfortable, John felt that there was something deeper but it was not in his nature to pry, while Sherlock was too busy digging out those early memories to be aware of the emotions that his face was betraying.

John finally cleared his throat “Tea?”

Sherlock didn't respond so John turned the bathroom lights off and headed for the kitchen.

\-------------------------

John began to hum in the flat. Perhaps it was something he had always done when no one else was around but it seemed as if he had taken Sherlock's compliment as a sign that he didn't find it annoying. At first Sherlock would tilt his head by a fraction of a degree every time he heard John begin humming a song, but before the first week had passed Sherlock had grown accustomed to hearing a combination of classical and 1980s pop songs while John washed the dishes or while he put away the groceries. The occasional quietly sung lyrics made Sherlock look towards his flatmate with a quiet smile.

“Why didn't you sing before?” Sherlock asked a few weeks later.

“What do you mean?”

“Before I told you you had a nice voice, why didn't you sing?”

“Can't you deduce it?” John asked feeling slightly uncomfortable. Sherlock threw him his trademark _Don't be an_ _i_ _diot_ look and John shifted his gaze back towards the half finished blog entry he had been typing. “Harry used to sing around the house all the time 24/7 and it drove me mad. I know how annoying it can be to live with someone who doesn't ever shut up so I try not to be that person.”

“Did Harry ever sing on stage?”

John laughed “No, she was too shy and her vocal skills are limited. Auto tune was invented for people like her.” 

“Is that why you found her singing annoying?” Sherlock asked.

“No. What I found annoying was that Harry would begin to sing at 7am while I was trying to sleep, and she wouldn't stop until midnight even if I was trying to do my homework. Mum thought it was fine. I wished I would go deaf just so I couldn't hear Harry.”

Sherlock smiled and returned to his notebooks without noticing John's lingering looks.

\-----------------------------

Another couple of weeks passed before Sherlock brought the subject up again. He was playing the violin late one night in his dressing gown while John watched him, with a flourish he finished the piece pausing for a few seconds before playing the first few lines of ''Music of the Night'' which had been his mothers favourite song from _Phantom of the Opera_ and which he had learned to play for her birthday the summer before he left for university _._ John's perked up expression indicated he knew the song and with a glance and a raised eyebrow he asked John a question. John smiled and walked over to the window letting Sherlock begin the piece again. With a flickered glance at John, Sherlock began the piece and John began to sing along.

“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation  
Darkness wakes and stirs imagination  
Silently the senses abandon their defenses  
Helpless to resist the notes I write...  
For I compose the music of the night”

Sherlock who usually had his eyes closed while playing music, had them open and fixed on John as he caressed the violin through lines of music.

“Softly, deftly music shall caress you  
Hear it, feel it secretly possess you  
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind  
In this darkness that you know you cannot fight  
The darkness of the music of the night”

John's baritone voice carried the lyrics perfectly along with the violin, and if he didn't notice Sherlock's gaze it was because he was lost in the music. It had been years since he had had the pleasure of singing with live music.

“Floating, falling, Sweet Intoxication  
Touch me, trust me, savor each Sensation  
Let the dream begin, Let your darker side give in  
To the Power of the music that I write,  
The Power of the Music of the Night!  
  
You alone can make my song take flight  
Help me make the music of the night.”

As the final notes flowed from Sherlock's fingers John finally looked at his friend and was suddenly pinned by Sherlock's gaze, their eyes burning into each others for long seconds before Sherlock looked away.

“Did you ever receive any training?” Sherlock questioned in a slightly deeper tone.

John had managed to clear his head quickly enough to have understood the question. “Yea, I had singing lessons for a couple of years.”

“Why did you not pursue it as a career?”

John smiled “That good am I? I don't know, I guess I didn't find it challenging so I took up an interest in medicine. I grew up listening to my grandfather's army stories so I suppose that influenced me in my choice of signing up to be an army doctor.”

“Do you prefer classical or modern songs? I have heard you sing both.” Sherlock asked as he lay his violin in its case.

“Mum used to sing a lot of classical songs, she taught me the French and Italian ones she liked, I never learned the language but I could replicate the sounds so it sounded like I knew what I was saying. Some of my favourite ones are ones she would sing around the house, but I like the modern ones as well. You play quite a bit of classic composers on your violin, but I am sure that you could make even Lady Gaga's “Poker Face” sound good on the violin if you tried.” John said as he sat back down in his chair.

“Lady _Gaga_?” Sherlock asked looking as if trying to reconcile such a dignified title with a name like Gaga.

John laughed and waved his hand. “It doesn't matter.”

Sherlock stood still for a moment watching John before giving a quiet hum and slowly walked into his room shutting the door behind him. John stared after him, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Sherlock's bedroom door closed almost silently in the distance.

Sherlock leaned against his door in defeat, his chin on his chest as he silently berated himself. Why did he choose that song of all songs? He should have chosen something more neutral. John had sung it beautifully oh so beautifully, but perhaps hearing John say phrases like “You alone can make my song take flight” was more self torture that he shouldn't put himself through. Heaving a silent groan he ran his hands through his hair trying to forget John's face as he had sung, so happy and earnest, as if he was fully aware of what the lyrics he was saying meant.

Suddenly there there was a tap at the door, Sherlock winced as the lack of vibrations from the knock -due to his weight against the door- gave away his position. Bugger. Even John would pick up on that and obviously people only lean against closed doors when they are trying to calm themselves.

“Sherlock?” John's voice asked. goddamn that voice.

Sherlock reluctantly turned the knob and faced John.

“What is this about Sherlock?” John's face showed concern, curiosity, and oddly enough...hope.

John was looking at him intently as if awaiting an answer. Ha. He wasn't even capable of explaining it to himself so how would he be able to explain it to John? John's lips were relaxed but became progressively more pursed and it wasn't until John's tongue flickered out against his bottom lip that Sherlock realized to his horror that he had been staring at John's mouth.

He looked back into John's eyes by accident as every single capillary on his face dilated and he felt his face flush. John knew. John _knew._ He could see it in his eyes and in the shift of his shoulders. He had given himself away, John hadn't known a minute ago but he had connected the dots and had only just now realized what Sherlock had been trying to hide since the night John shot the cabby.

“Sherlock?” John's voice was hushed.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but he had forgotten to to speak. John looked at him for a second longer before smiling with pure unadulterated happiness, he understood; and Sherlock's mind was flooded with reminders of every single reason he liked John before promptly short circuiting when warm lips pressed against his, and strong arms pushed him against the door frame. Sherlock's body was made of jello and so it was John who positioned his head, stilled his hands and who reminded him to breathe when they broke apart, both their faces tinged pink.

They stood in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom catching their breath and trying to maintain a vertical position when all their blood had departed from their limbs to their groins. Sherlock tried to stop leaning against the door frame but lost his balance and quickly opted to simply throw himself at John and use his sturdy frame to keep him upright as the world around them melted away. John stumbled slightly as he wrapped his arms around the detective.

“Your bed?”

The slight lisp Sherlock had overcome as a teenager, came back in full force as he eagerly replied “Yeth, pleath.” His embarrassment was shoved aside as John expertly manhandled him back into the room and onto the bed.

Sherlock's long fingers were everywhere simultaneously trying to undo John's shirt and his flies, John grabbed his wrists, stilling those capable digits.

“Stop.” he ordered and Sherlock's breath hitched at the command and his knees drew up slightly as another pang of arousal washed over him.

“I will do it.” John said, his voice betraying none of the lust that was so clearly on display on multiple parts of his body.

Sherlock didn't want to risk another lisp so he simply nodded and watched as John first undid the belt of his dressing gown before slowly plucking at the buttons of the shirt he wore underneath. With each freed button an inch of pale white chest was exposed and John let his fingers trail on the newly revealed skin, scattering kisses and feeling Sherlock's chest stutter everytime a new stretch of skin was revealed. Undoing the flies of Sherlock's trousers caused some minor delays as Sherlock has stupidly done up the interior button which John found tricky to unclasp. The end result of John's slow but effective administrations was a naked detective on the brink of orgasm splayed over the covers of his own bed biting down on his fist inorder to prevent mispronounced words from slipping out.

“You need to breathe Sherlock.” John's voice penetrated the haze of Sherlock's mind and the detective managed to process the words while John stood up and unbuttoned his cardigan. Sherlock watched fixated as John undressed methodically. He was clearly as aroused as Sherlock but he had much better control over his body. Sherlock envied his presence of mind but the sound of John's belt hitting the floor drove away any coherent thoughts and when John looked down at him and smiled Sherlock felt he would implode if John didn't do something.

John bent over Sherlock and got up onto the bed over him so that their faces were level. There was a flash of a tender smile before John pressed his lips against Sherlock's once again. Sherlock's spine arched upwards towards John as the electric current he seemed to have perpetually running through him took over. John's responding moan caused Sherlock to break away and frantically grab for the bedside drawer from which he withdrew a handful of condoms and a container of lube.

“Fuck me, pleath _pleath_ Fuck me.”

There was an audible swallow from John who had to close his eyes tightly and picture the hideous old cafeteria lady from back in school who had glared at every single student from their first day of school till their day of graduation just to keep himself from coming at the sight of Sherlock Holmes quivering, flushed and completely dishevelled underneath him lisping and begging to be fucked.

“I can't. Not now, next time.” John said, his voice deeper then he had ever heard it.

The words 'next time' seemed to get through to Sherlock who looked up surprised, John wanted there to be a next time! There was going to be a next time. John wasn't going to leave. Sherlock hadn't even realized that he was terrified of there not being a next time until John had said that there would be. John wanted to do this again, why was beyond him, but that didn't matter. He looked up into the blue eyes of his flatmate and with a gasp and cry his hips lifted, his cock pressing into the doctor's hipbone, and he ground up against it his body stiffening and his prick throbbing before a blinding flash incapacitated him as his body surrendered to pleasure the condoms and lube falling to the floor as his hand went limp.

John watched and felt Sherlock shook apart, his mouth open and three loud cut-off cries echoed through the room. A warm stream of cum hit John's hip before Sherlock collapsed back onto the pillows. It took every ounce of self-control the John possessed to stop himself from grinding down onto Sherlock who would be too sensitive for that sort of activity at the moment, and instead John wrapped a hand around himself and burying his face into the crook of the detective's neck where the smell of expensive shampoo, sweat and musk was the strongest he began to jerk himself off. It didn't take long, the sight of Sherlock laying in a post-orgasmic haze beneath him and the feeling of his come drying on John's skin was plenty and with a near-silent groan John came, his lips on Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock felt the stream of John's ejaculate dripping onto his lower abdomen and his mind flooded with want as John breathed against his neck. Sherlock brought a hand up and ran his fingers through John's short hair waiting for the blond man to recover. The breaths hitting his neck became more erratic and John's whole body began to shake and Sherlock looked down in fond irritation as John's giggles became audible.

“What?”

John laughed some more before replying “Us. We are like bloody teenagers! I think I had more stamina when I was 15!”

Sherlock huffed a laugh in agreement. “Well then I suppose we will have to do better next time.”

John smiled against his neck and hummed contentedly.

The silence that settled over them was comforting and Sherlock kept stroking John's hair as their breaths evened out.

John finally got off of Sherlock, laid down beside his friend and rested his head upon his arms looking at the detective intently. Sherlock was flat on his back, his face turned up towards the ceiling and his eyes occasionally flickering to John but promptly refocusing on the ceiling.

“Why did you remember my performance? What was so memorable?” John asked causing Sherlock to tilt his head towards him.

Sherlock regarded the man beside him, his first inclination was to lie and brush away the question, but John deserved better.

“I was a lonely child and the song you sang was about a lonely and lost person who deserved more. It spoke to me and since I was never able to find a recording of your version I just made sure I kept it in my mind palace. I have heard you sing that song innumerable times in my head.”

“It was _Wonderer's_ _L_ _ullaby_ wasn't it?” John asked.

Sherlock gave a brief nod, his eyes flitting away.

John looked at the man beside him who looked as if he regretted being so open and honest about anything related to emotional history and smiled warmly.

“Come here you git.” John said reaching out and pulling Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock gave a sound of protest but let John reposition him, trying to maintain a facade of indifference but the pounding of his heart told John that Sherlock _don't-touch-me_ Holmes absolutely loved cuddling.

John smiled at the stillness of the man in his arms and pressing a light kiss to Sherlock's temple he began to hum the wanderer’s lullaby.

Sherlock listened to him for a minute before turning to look at him with a smile.

“I'll be right back.” He said and with that Sherlock reluctantly tore himself out of John's arms and left the room. He returned a few seconds later with his violin with which he sat down beside John, his legs criss-crossed. John sat up as Sherlock lifted his bow smiling as the familiar notes were coaxed out of the violin by Sherlock's capable fingers. John took in a deep breath as Sherlock neared the end of the introduction, the slanted grey eyes looked up from the violin signaling the first note of the song and John began to sing the song that Sherlock had heard all those years ago accompanied by the tousled-haired detective's violin.

 


End file.
